The Thought that Counts
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: It's 1961 and Napoleon, the youngest CEA in U.N.C.L.E. history, is turning 29. Knowing that Napoleon will be swamped with expensive gifts from those seeking to win his favor, Illya struggles to find a meaningful present for his partner. Dedicated to Robert Vaughn.


_Notes: This is a ficlit I wrote on the occasion of Robert's birthday today. It takes place in 1961, shortly after my Baron of THRUSH arc, in the second year of Napoleon and Illya's partnership._

* * *

Illya had been wondering for weeks about what to get Napoleon for his birthday. It was only the second year of their partnership as agents, but a lot had happened in those two years; in the first year, they had, on top of saving each other's lives, had taken down the Baron of THRUSH. This had resulted in them both receiving promotions to the top two positions at Section II.

They had spent the first year getting to know each other and getting close, and the second year was also spent getting even closer. They were very happy together, and as CEA and second in command, had accomplished a lot that second year.

With the second year already setting as they progressed into November, it was getting to be the that puzzling time of year. He had seen last year how popular Napoleon was in the agency, and how colleagues from all over the different sections had gotten him expensive and impressive gifts. Illya, not used to the culture of such extravagant spending, had been caught off-guard and had felt inadequate with only a sentimental piece of paper as his present that year—his request for a permanent transfer to New York—and had gotten the idea at the last moment, upon seeing all of Napoleon's presents stacked up on his desk, to treat Napoleon to dinner.

Things were different this year. Not only were the two of them closer, Napoleon, as CEA, would be receiving even more lavish gifts from his admirers, no doubt trying to get into his good books. Mills, from Section VIII, had been trying to give Napoleon gifts all year for various occasions—sometimes no occasions at all; Napoleon had commented and shown these gifts to Illya as he received him, commenting on how he couldn't help but think that Mills was bucking for something.

For all his high-class living and style, Napoleon could read people well, knowing whether or not gift-givers were sincere. And that was what Illya was puzzling over; he could easily go out and buy something expensive and impressive… But then, how would he be different than the rest of them?

No, it wouldn't do—it just wouldn't do! Napoleon was someone who meant a lot to him; someone he cared about very deeply. Whatever he was going to give, it had to be something meaningful, not flashy and showy.

As the big day loomed only 24 hours away, Illya hovered around department stores, in spite of how he normally frowned upon their materialistic mantras. Already, they were pushing Christmas sales; it was absolutely eye-rolling. Illya wasn't a religious man, but even he felt that whatever Christmas was supposed to be, it certainly wasn't this.

And yet, Illya felt himself being pulled closer and closer into the trap; the temptation buy something shiny, new, and expensive for Napoleon was increasing by the moment—a gold-plated watch, silver pens, jewel-studded cufflinks and pins…

Illya shook his head, driving the thoughts back.

 _Nyet_ , he chided himself. _They are merely trinkets that will be rarely used, only seen on odd occasions. Napoleon means more to me than to just give him something that can only be used a couple times a year and will otherwise sit around gathering dust!_

Shaking his head again, he left the department store empty-handed, still wondering what to get for him.

He thought of Napoleon's taste for fine food and wines. Taking him out again to dinner was always an option, but Illya wanted it to be part of his gift—yes, food was practical, even if it was high-end food, but it was a meal, and, subsequently, something that was only lasting for a short while.

 _Last year, I gave him my transfer and wish to stay here, and he said it was the best present he had ever received. In spite of however flashy he makes himself out to be, he is very down-to-Earth, and he knows about what is important. I am sure I will find something… I just need the proper inspiration_ …

He was still thinking about it as he headed to work and arrived to the office he shared with Napoleon.

"Enjoy your walk?" Napoleon asked. Illya had given him that cover story to use so that he could window shop for a potential present.

"It was an interesting walk," Illya said. "How goes the report for the mission we had at St. Petersburg?"

Napoleon let out an "eh" as he paged through a Russian-English dictionary. "Frankly, I'm glad you're here; can you and your bilingual talents help with some of these translations? My Russian has gotten a bit rusty."

Illya smiled and sat down in the chair beside him.

"Of course I can help," he said. "What exactly seems to be the problem? A particular word or phrase?"

"Nothing really in particular; I'm just out of practice," Napoleon realized. "I knew Russian pretty well when I finished taking it in Survival School. And then I used a little bit when I was in my probationary status, following Mark around. And I still used it fairly well on my own. Even in the last couple of years, I was pretty good with it; I don't know why I fell out of practice…"

Illya paused, thinking about it for a moment.

"I think it's because of me," he said, quietly.

Napoleon blinked in surprise and looked to Illya.

"What are you talking about? You _are_ Russian; if anything, that should have spurred me to practice more…"

"Not really; with the both of us around, I would have, naturally, done all of the necessary talking in Russian. That would mean that you wouldn't have as much of a chance to do so, and that is why you have fallen out of practice with the language—at the very least, it is partly the reason."

Napoleon pondered over this.

"Huh…" he said. "Well, I guess it is easier to let an expert handle something when you know they'll be better at it…"

"But then you just get worse because of it," Illya sighed. "I truly am sorry for this, Napoleon."

"You don't have to apologize, Tovarisch; you certainly didn't intend to sabotage my language skills," Napoleon grinned. "Nah, it just means I need to resist the temptation to let you handle all the Russian when we work. …In fact, it'll probably be a good idea if we decided on a certain part of the day where you only talk to me in Russian—not English. That should help get the wheels turning up here again."

Illya managed a wan smile.

"Of course," he said. "If I can help you get your skill in the language back, then I'll do whatever is in my power to make it happen."

"Great; so I'm thinking dinner time—lazy evenings when we start talking about all sorts of things," Napoleon said. "All those conversations will be good in remembering if they're in Russian."

Illya nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Dinners, then. But, in the meantime, what do you want to do about these reports?"

Napoleon looked at the paperwork in his hands and on his desk and scowled, clearly fighting a private war—on the one hand, he found paperwork to be a drag in English; paperwork in Russian was even more tedious, and Illya could help him get through it in a fraction of the time.

On the other hand, if he had Illya do most of the work for him, well… That meant he was shirking practice in the language yet again.

Illya watched Napoleon as he sat there with his brow furrowed, and a genuine smile managed to cross his face.

"How about I take half of that paperwork?" he offered, kindly.

Napoleon looked over to him and grinned again.

"Sounds great to me," he said, fervently. "Oh, and I've been meaning to ask you something…"

"About what?" Illya asked.

"Well, I _just_ found out that there's going to be a free production of _Much Ado About Nothing_ this weekend—it's that Shakespeare in the Park thing—it's started getting pretty popular."

"Ahh," Illya said, smiling. "Of course; I should have known that a fan of the Bard such as yourself would want to see it."

"You bet," Napoleon grinned. "Of course, you know I'd prefer _Hamlet_ most of all, but _Much Ado_ is a good play, too. And since it's the weekend after my birthday, I was thinking we could have a picnic dinner and then enjoy the play and call it an evening—if you'd be open to the idea, of course."

Illya had to marvel at him for a moment; for all of Napoleon's insistence that he loved the good life, he really did have such simple pleasures. It certainly made Illya relieved that he hadn't fallen into any of the department store traps earlier that morning; he had made the right decision there.

He suddenly had a flash of inspiration, realizing that he did have access to the perfect gift after all.

" _Da_ , Napoleon," he said. "We can go see the play together this weekend—but I wish to take you to dinner for your birthday tomorrow."

"Well, how can I say no to that?" Napoleon said, grandly.

Illya smiled back at him, pleased to see him so excited. He could only hope that the gift he had decided on would give him the same joy.

* * *

Even though Illya had made peace with his choice of gift, he still, nevertheless, felt that same self-consciousness from last year return as he placed his small gift with the other flashy, wrapped boxes on Napoleon's desk.

Once again, he was beginning to doubt that he had made the right choice after all. What had the others gotten him? Even if he knew that Napoleon was smart enough not to be bought off with lavish gifts, the doubts remained.

Napoleon hadn't arrived yet; he was coming in a bit later that morning after working on those mission reports. Mills from Section VIII kept popping in all morning, looking disappointed to see that Napoleon wasn't there, and—it almost seemed-also looking disappointed to see Illya there at all. Illya just ignored him; he had other things on his mind, after all.

Napoleon strolled in later, whistling "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" and paused to greet Illya.

"Happy Birthday, Napoleon," Illya said, smiling to see how happy he was. "I am glad you were able to put those reports behind you."

"Me, too—and I couldn't have done it without your help, so thanks," Napoleon said. "Also, I think our Russian-only hour last evening really was beneficial to me, so thanks for that, too."

"Do you still wish to have Russian Hour tonight, as well, or shall we forego it, since it is your birthday?" Illya asked.

"Hey, it's my birthday no matter what language I speak; I say we keep at it," he said, looking at himself in a mirror. "Hmm, 29 isn't looking bad at all!"

"Let me put your vanity at ease and assure you that you will still be looking your best even at 79," Illya said.

"Oh, since when did you become clairvoyant?"

"Since I realized that it'll get you away from that mirror," Illya teased.

Napoleon chuckled in spite of himself, and then turned his attention to the pile of presents on his desk.

"Well, better start getting at this so that I can fill out those thank-you cards," he said, cheerfully.

And Illya sat back and watched as he opened one gift after another—gourmet chocolates, crackers and caviar, fine cheeses, a couple bottles of vintage wine, cufflinks and tie pins, and—Mills's gift—a sterling silver platter.

With some amount of satisfaction, Illya watched as Napoleon scratched his head at the gift.

"Well, it's _nice_ ," he admitted. "…I guess I'll find some use for it."

He shrugged and put the expensive gifts aside, and then picked up Illya's. Illya held his breath as Napoleon opened an old, bound book with Russian writing stamped on the cover in gold leaf. He tilted his head in curiosity, and, suddenly, the light bulb went off as he realized what it was.

"Illya, is this… _Hamlet_?"

"In Russian," Illya said, with a nod. He gave Napoleon a sheepish smile. "I got the idea after you said that you wanted to get back the skill you had in the Russian language, and then I was reminded yesterday of your love of the Bard's work. I apologize for its condition, but it has been through a lot…" He sighed. "It used to belong to my father; it was part of his library. After the war ended, I went back to the house to see if there was anything left of it that I could take… This was one of the few things that I was able to salvage. But aside from a little wear and tear, it's readable." He smiled. "I think you can appreciate it more than I can—and since you practically have the play memorized in English, reading it in Russian will help you with the context. And even after your flair for the language returns, you can still enjoy reading it, as well."

To his surprise, Napoleon was looking as though he was trying to swallow a lump in his throat.

"You're darn right I will," he said at last, and he drew Illya into a tight hug. The book was one of the few things that Illya had of his parents, and yet he had willingly given it to him as a thoughtful gift, one that he could enjoy and would use. That meant more to him than any of the priciest gifts in the Diamond District.

And Illya hugged him back, relieved and happy that he had gotten Napoleon exactly what he had needed.

And after an enjoyable day and an enjoyable dinner, they spent a lovely evening reading from the play and reciting the soliloquies together in Russian—among them, the "To Be or Not to Be" speech, the Fifth Soliloquy, and, together, they did the final exchange between Hamlet and Horatio.

And as Illya recited the scenes with him, he took joy in seeing the unbridled happiness in Napoleon's eyes, his heart warm to know that he had, once again, found the perfect gift for his partner.


End file.
